


the exception proves the rule

by Diefenbaker



Category: White Collar
Genre: Best Friends, Episode Related, Episode: s04e02 Most Wanted, Loneliness, Longing, M/M, New York City, set after S4E2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25218877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diefenbaker/pseuds/Diefenbaker
Summary: It’s funny, really: The man who needs too many favors and the guy who can’t say no. A match made in heaven.Mozzie has a lot to think about.Set after Season 4, Episode 2 ("Most Wanted").
Relationships: Elizabeth Burke/Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey (implied), Neal Caffrey & Mozzie, Neal Caffrey/Mozzie
Comments: 16
Kudos: 32





	the exception proves the rule

**Author's Note:**

> _This is for everyone who can't bear the longing in Mozzie's eyes whenever he looks at Neal._
> 
> (I'm not a native speaker and still new to ao3, so please tell me if anything is wrong with this fic, so that I can fix it!)

If you look up _irresistible_ in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of Neal Caffrey.

If you look up _sidekick_ in the dictionary, you’ll find a hundred pictures: Dr. Watson, Robin, Thelma, Samwise, R2D2, Piglet, Lane Kim, Barney Rubble, Gromit, Willow Rosenberg, Sancho Panza, Mike Wazowski… the very last of them is a photo of Mozzie, his arm slung around Neal’s waist, a stupid grin on his face.

This is also the picture that is currently on Mozzie’s bedside table. Yes, Mozzie has a bedside table. He also has a bed (slightly lumpy), a table (mahogany, three well hidden secret drawers and one that is so well hidden that even Mozzie sometimes has trouble finding it), a kitchen (no cheese in the fridge), and a bathroom (small).

The apartment has three-and-a-half exits. It also has: a cunning security system (electronic and analog), excellent wifi, and a capricious washing machine.

No one knows where the apartment is. The nameplate by the door is faded, and the names of the previous tenants have been crossed out with sharpie. If you had to take a guess at what name has been scrawled there in uneven letters, you’d probably go for _Smith_ or _Johnson_ or _Williams_. If you were being bold, maybe you’d say _Haversham_ , and then feel embarrassed about it.

You can’t see the Empire State building from the apartment. You can, however, see a strategically placed dumpster, an array of antennae to either monitor extraterrestrial activity or baseball, and the best deli in town.

It’s not a very nice apartment. It’s painfully, wonderfully _average_.

If you look up _average_ in the dictionary, you might find _unsuspicious_ as a synonym.

Yes, you could say there’s a reason why spends Mozzie so much time at Neal’s place.

And in nights like this (a million stars above the Cape Verde islands), Mozzie sometimes dares to be honest with himself: The reason why he spends so much time at Neal’s place is not the delightful collection of Bordeaux. It’s not the fact that sometimes life as a crook can get boring and that hunting down other crooks by Neal’s side can be fun. It’s not the view.

The reason for – well, everything, lately (or not just lately, but _ever since_ ) – is Neal.

Ever since they met, since that one fateful game of Finding the Queen, Mozzie hasn’t been the same. A _coup de foudre_ , as the French say.

It’s funny, really: The man who needs too many favors and the guy who can’t say no. A match made in heaven.

Mozzie isn’t sure what to do next, where to go. He stayed behind, but didn’t even watch Neal climb into the airplane with Mr. Suit. Dobbs is defeated, Maya is back at the café, and Mozzie sits on his roof terrace, nursing a glass of Chardonnay.

Briefly, he considers going back to Detroit, sorting out the business with the Dentist. He could set up a sort of Dread-Pirate-Roberts situation, appoint an official successor, earn 15 percent of all gains. That’d be easy money.

It's not as if he can’t keep himself busy without Neal.

Being a criminal mastermind is hard work. There are always people to call, uniforms to steal, receipts to forge, meetings to arrange, emails to write and foreign transmissions to decode. It takes a lot of effort to maintain a web that stretches all over the country. Having perfect memory and being single helps, kind of.

The four years without Neal were fine. Mostly. It _did_ come in handy that Mozzie spent most of those four years working as a librarian. Breaking Neal out of a high-security prison was a tricky business and they planned it mostly via the Dewey Decimal system and secret messages hidden in _The Count of Monte Christo_ , _Infinite Jest_ , and _Anna Karenina_.

He misses spending a whole day in Central park, sitting on one of those back-to-back benches with a newspaper. Soaking up the city’s gossip. Words whispered over his shoulder; mysterious packages dropped by passing joggers. Pulling strings and knotting strands, a butterfly preparing for the next big storm. He’s _good_ at this.

And, yeah, maybe he’s not exactly a butterfly. More of a bug, really: untraceable and annoying. And short – that’s another thing he’s got in common with most of the other sidekicks, that, and the funny glasses.

But you don’t need glasses to see what’s going on with Neal since the FBI – or, more specifically, Peter Burke – got their hands on Neal. Mozzie can’t blame the Suit: He knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of one of Neal’s disarming smiles. You get distracted and you trip and you fall and before you can say “Hands up!” you’re putty in his hands.

He's seen the look on Burke’s face, the yearning in his eyes.

The thing that surprised Mozzie was that Neal Caffrey, international thief and art forger, charmer but never charmed, seemed to fall just as hard for Mr. Suit. And – here’s another thing Mozzie didn’t see coming – for Mrs. Suit, too.

The three of them: A loose knot of exchanged glances that inevitably turn into longing looks; the comfort of a knowing how to find a home (and a warm bed, who knows); phone calls in the middle of the night; a hand on Neal’s shoulder, an arm around El’s waist, Peter’s crooked tie that needs straightening. Presents, and smiles, and laughter.

The moments that bind them: A promise of freedom. A treasure in exchange for a life. Trust, broken and mended, over and over again. The knowledge that someone will come for you, that someone will find you, no matter what.

Mozzie has seen the crushing hug on the rooftop, the happiness written in Neal’s face – an answer to Burke’s visible relief. Going back to New York was only ever a matter of time for Neal.

He’s trying not to be jealous. He really is.

But he can’t help remembering that sometimes, being the sidekick isn’t so bad.

A month or two after the plane had gone up in flames, Neal had come back to the apartment, hollow and tired. There was no pretty woman around, no Kate, no Sarah Ellis, no Alex Hunter. And Peter Burke hadn’t yet proved that he had a thing for long-legged brunettes.

Neal had come home to his apartment and found Mozzie there. They’d shared a bottle of wine, and they’d talked.

Not about work, not about the FBI, not about the next big coup. They’d talked about the big things in life: Anything from Jackson Pollock to quantum entanglement to childhood memories to _If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be?_

And Neal had answered _New York_.

And Mozzie had said _Me too_. (Obviously.)

And Neal had laughed, and looked at him, and Mozzie had felt like the luckiest guy in the world. Being there, with his best friend, the Empire State building lighting up the night sky. He’d felt so alive.

And, like it was the most natural thing in the world, Neal had leaned over and kissed him. And Mozzie, who’s longest relationship had lasted eleven days, who’d never really enjoyed kissing all that much, who’d a long time ago realized that he rarely felt either sexual or romantic attraction to anyone – Mozzie kissed Neal back.

And it wasn’t awkward, or weird, or uncomfortable. Neal was the exception that proved the rule, it’d always been like that.

They’d seen the worst and the best of each other: Lies and secrets and jokes, toupees and turtlenecks. They’d staked out together and run together and hidden together.

And this, lying on the rumpled sheets together, Neal’s mouth on his body, sweat and hunger and desire, his fingers digging into Neal’s shoulder blades – it felt like a natural extension of what they’d built together over the years.

It had felt right and good, to hold Neal, to have him right where Mozzie wanted him, by his side, close enough to hear Neal whisper _You’re my best friend_.

Neal had always been the only person to accept Mozzie for who he was: a misfit and a genius, paranoid and petty, unflinchingly loyal and determined. And Mozzie? He knew Neal better than anyone, better even than Mr. Suit. He’d known Neal from the beginning, from that one fateful game of Finding the Queen.

Mozzie hates surprises, hates not knowing what’s around the corner or behind the door. Meeting Neal was the best surprise that ever happened to him – an exception that proved the rule.

Another surprise: Mozzie likes being the sidekick.

Mozzie raises his glass, a quiet cheer to the stars that brought them together. (Not that he believes in fate, or providence, or God, really. It’s just nice to think that they were meant to be.)

Always being ready to be on the run can be exhausting. Telling yourself that you’re a minimalist Buddhist helps. The only memorabilia that Mozzie has allows himself to keep is tightly locked up in a safe-deposit box at Midtown Union, staring with one button eye at polished steel until Mozzie feels safe enough to take him home. (Wherever _home_ happens to be.) (Home is where Neal is, who is he even kidding at this point?)

When you’re always on the run, ready to bolt, keeping a diary is not only near impossible, but also immensely stupid. So Mozzie sends himself emails. He writes about nothing that really happened, no _dear Diary_ , no names, no hidden codes.

When you’ve got perfect memory, you don’t need to write down numbers and dates. But sometimes it good to see your feelings in black-and-white, to remind yourself that you’re real.

Just a quote, something that feels true, whenever he wants to remember.

There are 10,437 emails in his inbox. The most recent of them is a one-way airplane ticket.

Tonight he types:

> _“I love New York, even though it isn't mine, the way something has to be, a tree or a street or a house, something, anyway, that belongs to me because I belong to it.”_
> 
> ― Truman Capote

**Author's Note:**

> White Collar has made lockdown infinitely more enjoyable so far.  
> Thanks for reading this little fic I needed to get out of my head!  
> Leave me a comment, maybe? :)


End file.
